Drinks With a Gentleman

I am currently in Salt Lake City.  I got here by way of Chicago where I had the good fortune to stay in the home of a gentleman.  He welcomed me into his home with open arms.  And an open wine cellar. 

I drove to Chicago with my roommate and his girlfriend.  Our host was her father.  We all had planes to catch on Saturday, and stayed at his home Friday night.  My roommate and I stopped along the way to pick up a bottle of Crown, lest we arrive at our gracious host's home empty-handed.  

A few minutes after arrival the bottle was opened and shared.  We drank and talked.  We spoke of politics and war, heroes and tyrants, friends and family.  Without pausing in his story or interrupting mine, my glass was periodically filled by our host.  The whisky was soon gone. 

Our host, my roommate, and I retired to the basement.  A beautiful bar, designed by our architect host, greeted us.  Opposite the bar a fully stocked wine cellar.  Our host pondered his wines for a moment, and selected a 2000 Cabernet Sauvignon.  The label on the bottle rattled off a list of tastes one should note in the wine: red currant, black cherry, and various others.  Now, I enjoy wine.  I love a good pairing.  When the wine I am drinking goes well with my steak, it is phenomenal.  However, I do not know what tannins are, and I don't really care to.  I know little of the technical aspects that make a wine great.  I know that some wines are too sweet for me, some to strong, but in a blind taste test it is entirely possible that I would give five stars to a delightful box of Franzia.  

I tried to make conversation as the topic turned to the wine before us.  I asked our host if he could taste the subtle flavors the label boasted.  He waived me off quickly.  The only thing he wanted to know was if we liked it.  He could not care less whether or not we could talk intelligently about tannins and grape regions, although we did briefly discuss them, he did not care whether or not we knew a wine should breathe for a bit after the pour, although he did encourage me to wait a moment after my first eager sip, he only cared about whether or not his guests were enjoying themselves.  

After the first bottle, he quickly produced another.  As we continued to talk and drink I began to notice he poured more into our glasses than his own.  He saw my glance at his own nearly empty glass and smiled. "Someone has to drive everybody to the airport in the morning" he explained. 

Soon after, in the early morning hours, he retired. 

In the morning I awoke to a breakfast of oatmeal and orange juice.  I was driven to the airport, firmly embraced, thanked for my company, and sent on my way.